


Cabbages and Kings

by Dee_Laundry



Series: My Fathers' Son [9]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-29
Updated: 2007-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:29:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sunny Saturday afternoon, House, Wilson, and the world’s most expensive high chair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cabbages and Kings

**Author's Note:**

> Written as an anniversary present for the ever-lovely [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/). Thanks to [](http://perspi.livejournal.com/profile)[**perspi**](http://perspi.livejournal.com/), [](http://bironic.livejournal.com/profile)[**bironic**](http://bironic.livejournal.com/), and [](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_barks**](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/) for review.

An intelligent and curious man, House always wants to know everything about everything. By that, he means everything factual, of course. How anyone _feels_ about a subject, such as House’s actions toward him or her, is irrelevant and useless except as a curiosity or one more piece into the puzzle that is humanity. Everybody lies, and he has to know why, so that he can know _what_ , so that he can solve the problem and save the day and generally be more awesome than anyone else on the planet.

Thoughts about how awesome he is take up a few more minutes until he realizes that there was some other point to what he was thinking. Everything about everything factual… _Except_. There was an “except” he meant to add.

An intelligent and curious man, House always wants to know everything about everything, except for Wilson’s cooking. This is not to say that House does not appreciate Wilson’s cooking; he does, although he does so begrudgingly and silently as it would do no one any good for Wilson to get on a high horse about it. Wilson’s high horses have a tendency to rear up and buck Wilson off, and one of these days one will stomp him on the head with a hard hoof and House’ll be left alone. House used to be used to being alone (non-redundant repetition, ha) but now he’s not.

He’s used to a warm bed and hot meals and two kinds of aftershave in the bathroom and disgustingly cheery music coming out of the stereo at a disgustingly early hour and silly babbling and laughter.

Plus there’s their eight-month-old son to think about.

Wilson occasionally accuses House of slipping into early senility, but this is simply the way one’s mind works when one’s a genius. Speed and agility, no need to plod slowly from A to B to C (and damn, the guitarist on Wee Sing & Play is entirely too enthusiastic about playing the simple chords of the alphabet song; House wants to track him down and find out if he sticks with the standard Eight Ball or chooses a different combination of illegal drugs) when you can dart directly to Z and then back to the ever-so-much more interesting M. _Mmmm._ Or cruise right along to V, which stands for varieties of vitamin-rich vegetables, about which House has determined he should not know.

Namely, how Wilson sneaks them into his cooking.

House has never turned down a carrot, or most beans, and cherry tomatoes are exceedingly fun to play with. But when you get into the nutrient-dense categories of _brassica_ and gourds, you may finish them off yourself, for House will have vacated the premises.

He realizes, because he has to know everything about everything, that carotenoids, other antioxidants, fiber, and so forth are important both for energy level in the short term and for overall longevity. Yet that abstract fact is not able to overcome the simpler and more meaningful truth that those vegetables are _yucky_ , no matter how much his mother and then Wilson may have tried to convince him otherwise.

This is why House generally avoids the kitchen when Wilson is in there, because he quite simply, in this one limited instance, is content with not knowing.

He’s decided to risk it this late Saturday afternoon, however, even though he can hear the chopping from all the way down the hall, because his fighter jet has gone down in flames, and he’s already read the only interesting articles in _Clinical Infectious Diseases_ , and the Dirty Jobs marathon isn’t until tomorrow.

It might also have something to do with the fact that he hasn’t had a real conversation with Wilson since eight o’clock last night _and_ that Wilson has the boy sequestered in there with him. Might; might not. He’s not admitting anything.

The kitchen is sunny and smells like fresh-baked bread. (House suspects Wilson of having a can of bread-scented air somewhere.) He plants himself in a chair near the island, swipes Wilson’s drink, and turns to regard his begotten son, sitting proudly in the world’s most expensive high chair.

“What’s he doing?” House asks.

Wilson doesn’t even look up from the cutting board. “He’s increasing his self-help skills and reducing tactile defensiveness through manual exploration of a variety of textures.”

Grinning broadly, Jack slaps both hands onto the high chair’s tray, which produces a loud squelch and a light spray.

“He’s playing with his food.”

“He’s playing with his food,” agrees Wilson.

House throws a mocking stink-eye at Jack and accepts a giggle as his reward. “He’s getting gunk in his hair,” House notes.

“I’m aware of that.”

Astonished, House looks up, pointedly avoids noting the contents of the cutting board, and asks, “Are you ill? You hate it when he gets gunk in his hair.”

The knife stills, and Wilson looks House in the eye. First time in twenty-one hours, House realizes, and then considers how it is that he ever got to the point where he keeps track of such things. Not a complaint, merely a recognition that they’ve driven clean off the edge of the roadmap he used to have for his life. It was safe, in those couple of square miles, and comfortable. Well, not comfortable actually: his leg hurt like a bitch, and it was hard to feel right in his skin, and he didn’t quite trust anyone. But safe. Familiar, known, independent, beholden to none.

Jack blows a loud and long raspberry, and House and Wilson both laugh. Jack joins in, in his high, sweet voice, and claps his hands messily.

“I hate it when he gets gunk in his hair,” Wilson says, as he crosses his eyes and sticks his tongue out at Jack; Jack’s laugh grows louder. “But I hate it more when he puts easily swallowed non-food items in his mouth.” Wilson’s eyes and his hands return to his chopping, shoulders a little stiffer than before.

“Well, yes,” House replies. Swallowing random crap is bad, duh. “So?”

“So, for his safety, he needs to stay happily occupied in his chair while I’m busy, unless _you_ want to get on the floor and creep around after him, or better yet, actually _do_ the baby-proofing I’ve been _asking_ you to do for the past three months.” Each verbal emphasis is accompanied by a harder thump of the knife against the board.

Turning back to Jack, who’s begun gibbering contentedly to himself, House inquires, “How did this turn into Get Pissy at House Day?”

Wilson chops faster. “I’m not pissy; I’m busy.”

“You’re pissy.”

“I’m not pissy!”

The knife sounds almost like a helicopter rotor. House might be afraid for Wilson’s fingers, if he could bring himself to look at the cutting board. “You’re pissy.”

“Not,” Wilson replies through clenched teeth.

“Pissy.”

“OK! OK!” The knock of the knife handle slamming into the island countertop startles Jack into silence, but Wilson doesn’t seem to notice, focused as he is on House. “I’m pissy! I got up at five and spent six hours at the hospital, coming home to _two_ cranky, unfed infants.”

In light of Wilson’s bad mood, House generously refrains from pointing out that he actually got up _before_ five and spent _seven_ hours at the hospital. “We hadn’t gotten around to lunch yet. We were napping,” House explains.

“In the middle of the day instead of mid-morning.” Wilson has picked up the knife again. It’s the incredibly sharp eight-inch Shun Elite that cost more than House’s first car (which, admittedly, was a piece of crap, but still), and House is the tiniest bit scared of it. Push hard enough, he feels, and one day the police might find it sticking out of his eye socket.

“Which means,” Wilson continues, voice like cold steel, and House moves his chair a little closer to the very cute baby that Wilson loves, “that Jack refused his afternoon nap and will fall asleep early tonight, which means he’ll get up early tomorrow, which means I have to get up early on my first full day off in over three weeks.”

House scoots even closer to the very cute baby who is adorably licking the yellow-green pasty mess off his hands. “When Jack gets up tonight, I could try keeping him up longer, so maybe he’d sleep in later.”

Sighing the weary sigh of the defeated, Wilson opens the refrigerator and reaches into the vegetable crisper. “Remind me again why our son doesn’t sleep through the night at this age.”

“He’s a _bon vivant_ ,” House replies. “He knows the good hooch and the good hoochie-mama movies are best enjoyed in the wee hours.”

“Whee,” Wilson replies faintly. “I can’t believe you still feed him in the middle of the night.”

House shrugs and gives Jack a conspiratorial smile. “What else are we going to do? Besides watch Cinemax After Dark, of course.”

Wilson doesn’t even bother to look up, and it’s a shame, because House is looking quite charming, if he does say so himself, and Jack is a huge messy bundle of lovability.

Wilson continues not looking up; even minutes of sweet gurgling doesn’t coax him. Nor do the sounds Jack’s making. The air is decidedly chilly.

 _I think we’re at DEFCON Three_ , House communicates telepathically to his son. Jack throws out a hand to indicate that it’s up to House to heroically sacrifice for the good of them all. Or he’s reaching for a plastic book on the floor, one or the other.

House retrieves the book, plays a quick peek-a-boo game behind it, and then plops it on Jack’s tray. He girds himself and moves closer to Wilson, although out of slicing range. Taking a deep breath, he utters the momentous, newfound words, “Do you want me to help you cook?”

Wilson didn’t look that pleasantly astonished when House said they should have a kid. Hmm. House has trained him perhaps too well.

“You would?” Wilson croaks out around his surprise. He clears his throat and continues eagerly, “Yes, yes, I want you to help.”

Nodding, House replies, “Fine. You’re cutting those pieces too big.”

“No, I’m not,” Wilson huffs.

“Yes, you are.” Shaking his head at Wilson’s glare, House continues, “Come on, do you want my help or not?”

“That’s your help? Criticizing the way I do things?”

“If I don’t critique you, how will you ever get better?”

 _DEFCON Two, nuclear launch probable_. House retreats from the white-hot jets blazing out of Wilson’s eyes and silently entreats Jack to intercede.

Jack lets him squirm for a beat and then makes with the rescue. “Dada!”

Simple little thing, but it swells the warm bubble that’s taken residence in House’s chest over the past few years. “Wilson, listen to that! Your kid’s calling you.”

The relenting is minute, but House’s whetted eye can see it. The Shun Elite goes back into the broccoli-looking thing, and if the pieces it produces are smaller than before, House doesn’t mention it.

“He’s too young to be saying a real word; that’s just babbling,” Wilson says.

“I’ve listened to him babble for months now. _That_ was a deliberate word.” House looks back at Jack for confirmation.

“Dada!” Jack repeats, and both hands are up in the air, straining toward them.

A big, broad smile breaks across Wilson’s face as he drops everything and heads straight for their little boy. House has always simultaneously scoffed at and admired Wilson’s willingness to _believe_ , but in this case it sparks another few joules for the bubble. House is in charge of his own destiny, clear-headed and in control in a rational universe, but deep down inside in his private heart he’ll admit he’s a lucky man.

Wilson, not so much, it seems, as Jack struggles not to be swept up in Wilson’s embrace. “Dada!” Jack cries again, and his stubby arms reach around Wilson’s side and wave yearningly in House’s direction.

 _Oy vey, bubbala, what are you doing?_ It’s not that House doesn’t want to hold his son; he’s quite fond of the scamp. It’s just that Wilson’s face is going to get – oh, yeah, that look. That one right there. Shit.

Wilson drops a kiss on Jack’s head and drops Jack on House’s lap. Ignoring the goo streaks on his favorite shirt, he goes back to the cutting board and stares at the broccoli thing as if he’s never seen it before. “Of course,” he murmurs. “Of course his first word is you.”

“Not me,” House protests, over the happy coos of the baby clinging to his neck. “You’re Dad; I’m House.”

“Dada,” Jack purrs, and rubs his face into House’s chest.

Wilson throws up his hands and then lets them flop onto the counter. “Our son has spoken. You’re Dad. I’m… Wilson, I suppose. No big deal. He’ll probably get the pronunciation right by the time he’s three, four at the latest.”

“Stop being a girl,” House groans, “and get your ass over here.”

“I have to finish this casserole,” Wilson replies, and opens up the refrigerator again.

Last straw. House is going to end this silliness. “Ass. Here. Now. Or I’m releasing this grubby monster into your bed, to run wild over the new silk comforter cover.”

Wilson’s eyes narrow; House can hear the gears turning. “It’s your bed, too,” Wilson points out.

“You know that I don’t care,” House replies as Jack bats his baby blues at Wilson. And who’s to say whether it’s the threat or the enticement, but Wilson actually does haul his sexy little butt around the kitchen island.

House tucks Jack securely into his left arm, and grabs Wilson’s chin with his right hand. “You’ll always be Dada to me,” he says sincerely and watches Wilson roll his eyes.

“That’s… unutterably creepy.”

There’s a smile hiding in those lips, and House is determined to bring it out. He loosens his hold on Wilson’s chin and slowly slides his fingers toward the back of Wilson’s neck. “You know why Jack wants me right now, don’t you?”

“Because –” Wilson starts snottily, but he sighs when House’s fingertips reach the nape of his neck. “Why?” he asks.

House rubs his thumb gently along Wilson’s earlobe, enjoying the fine tickle of hairs there. Jack is still cuddling into House’s chest, his eyes drooping.

“Because he’s so absolutely secure in your love that he feels safe temporarily leaving you. He knows for a fact that you’ll always be there for him, so he’s going to give the other weird guy that lives with him a chance.”

“He’s always loved you, House.” And there’s the smile. Tiny. The most miniscule upturn of lips, but warm enough to make the balloon float higher.

“He’s always loved you more.” Bringing his hand back, House gives Wilson’s jaw a light slap. “Accept that, stop being such a girl, and make me dinner.”

Wilson’s glare is the very best kind, the kind that he’s _trying_ very hard to mean but doesn’t actually. A victory for House, and the world’s back to DEFCON Five: peacetime readiness.

“I would point out the contradictory nature of the ‘butch up and slave over a hot stove’ order –”

“Some of the world’s best chefs are men,” House interrupts, “as you always say.”

“But,” Wilson continues, chucking Jack under the chin and tickling his ears to perk him up, “I am instead going to quietly gloat over the fact that you secretly read child development books.”

“I do not!” House protests. “I’m far too busy.” On his left leg, he bounces Jack, who giggles on both the rise toward Wilson’s tickling fingers and the fall back down.

“Uh huh.” Skepticism is unbecoming on Wilson, except for the fact that it’s totally becoming on him, because it means he’s willing to play. House wonders how his father would react to a declaration of DEFCON Six. “And that concept of Jack’s secure attachment to me came from where?” Wilson continues. “Thin air?”

House sniffs and removes Jack from the playing field, overruling his protestations. “I had a peds rotation.”

Smirking, Wilson moves back to the cutting board and picks up the Shun Elite. “I bought that, or at least pretended to buy that, for the skin rash prevention tips, but there’s no way the rotation covered developmental psychology. I’ve caught you.”

“OK, Inspector Lestrade. I confess to the crime of occasionally dabbling on the internet in things other than porn. I promise never to do it again, so help me Dog.” House stands and settles Jack on his left hip before reaching for his cane.

“I thought you were going to help me cook,” Wilson notes, but it’s for form’s sake only. The middle-distance focus of his gaze is a clear tell that he’s immersed himself in whatever culinary masterpiece is on the agenda for the evening.

“I am going to help in the best possible way: by getting the hell out of your way and even hosing off sticky-fingered Pete here.”

Jack is babbling again, stuck on a series of “buh” sounds. He catches Wilson’s eye just before House hauls him out the doorway and shares his joy loudly. “Buh-buh!”

“Wilson!” House gasps. “He called you _bubbe_!”

Wilson responds with a short raspberry, which delights Jack to no end. “Grandmother? Yeah, right. I’ll stick with Wilson, thanks.”

“Come on, Sticky Pete,” House says to Jack as they head down the hall. “Let’s make Pop happy by working on your ‘p’ sounds.”


End file.
